


Circles

by lauawill



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 02:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauawill/pseuds/lauawill
Summary: A companion piece to "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" The two stories can be read in any order, I think. Chakotay has some issues to work through, and chooses the worst possible way to work through them. I wrote this years ago and never posted it here. Enjoy.





	Circles

**CIRCLES**

_I cannot well repeat how there I entered,_

_ So full was I of slumber at the moment_

_ In which I had abandoned the true way._

\-- Dante Alighieri

(Translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]

I wake up with a pounding in my head that’s become all too familiar.

For an instant I’m not sure where I am – another notion that’s now second nature – although it almost doesn’t matter to me anymore. The bed is soft and warm, which is really all I can ask for these days.

I do remember the bar, at least. There’s always a bar. The most recent was higher-class than many, which only made my dusty trousers and scuffed boots stand out even more than usual. I swaggered in half expecting to be thrown out and I suspect the bouncer thought about it while I surveyed the place as if I owned it. As usual, it didn’t take long for someone to recognize me and beckon me for a drink and a story.

They’ve all heard the story.

It was all over the NewsNets for months: _Voyager’s_ triumphant return, the unconditional pardons, the Captain’s promotion, my sudden departure.

_Everyone_ has heard the story.

That doesn’t stop them from wanting to hear all about it straight from one of the key participants, and it doesn’t stop me from telling it well – or from soliciting a few drinks from a pretty listener.

A few drinks that inevitably lead to a few more, and if the listener is attentive enough, a different kind of story altogether.

I tell them how much I admired her.

I tell them how intelligent and strong she was, and how compassionate.

I tell them how brave she was, how beautiful, how wise.

I tell them how fervent and steadfast she was in her belief that she’d get us home or die trying.

I tell them how ardent I was in my loyalty to her and how I don’t think I’ll ever feel that way for another woman.

It usually works.

The problem is that they fall in love with the myth I create for them of Captain Kathryn Janeway and her devoted Commander Chakotay, but they wake up with me.

More often, they wake up alone.

=/\=

My father used to tell me a story about the Creator, the People and the Animals. The Creator gathered all the Animals to him and said, “I need to hide something from the People until they are ready for it: The Truth that they make their own reality.”

Eagle said, “Give it to me! I’ll fly it to the moon.”

“No,” said the Creator. “One day soon the People will go there and find it.”

Salmon said, “How about the bottom of the ocean?”

“No,” said the Creator. “The People will find it there, too.”

Buffalo pawed the earth and said, “I will bury it in the Great Plains.”

“No,” said the Creator. “The People will soon dig and find it there.”

But wise Grandmother Mole said, “Put it inside them.”

“Done,” said the Creator. “It’s the last place they’ll look.”

I’ve heard dozens of variations on this story over the years. Sometimes Coyote is the one doing the hiding – and sometimes Coyote is the one who makes the suggestion of the impregnable hiding place. Shakespeare had a phrase for this, too: “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

Either way, the point is the same. By our thoughts, we construct our own reality, and, whether consciously or unconsciously, our actions ensure that that reality comes to pass. We then blame everything we can think of for the disappointment of that reality, only looking inward and finding the Truth when our self-delusion is complete.

After we returned from the Delta Quadrant, Seven dropped me so fast it made my head spin. I tried to convince her that we’d both be happier facing the challenges of the Alpha Quadrant together, but she wouldn’t hear my words. I assumed that she would be ostracized for her Borg past and told her as much. With insight that should have rocked me to the core, Seven looked me in the eye and said, “I will not subscribe to your low opinion of humanity, nor will I allow you to frighten me into staying with you.”

I told her I loved her, and I was only trying to protect her.

She arched one pale, perfect eyebrow and asked if I was trying to protect her … or just myself.

I got angry then. “What am I trying to protect myself from?” I demanded.

“From being alone, and from realizing that what you really wanted … _whom_ you really wanted … is now no longer within your reach.”

I dismissed her. Literally. Instead of saying “I’m sorry you feel that way,” or “Maybe we can still be friends,” or even “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” I was so stung I fell back on my training, using it like a shield against the Truth of her words. “You’re dismissed, Seven,” I growled, and she left.

That was months ago, and the reality I’ve created for myself is built on so much self-delusion it’s breathtaking. I told myself that I didn’t really care for Seven and that after so many years without, all I really wanted was a warm and willing body in my bed.

And look what I’ve done. I’ve gone out and bedded so many warm and willing bodies, they’ve all blurred into namelessness.

=/\=

I wake up disgusted with myself.

It’s just another feeling that I’ve grown accustomed to and know well how to ignore.

A shaft of sunlight bursts through the non-polarized windows and hits me full in the face, slicing through my eyelids. I squint and see red, take a deep breath and carefully open one eye.

The room is tastefully decorated in pale greens and blues and I have the strange sensation of being submerged in a sparkling sea. Then I realize there’s water running somewhere. 

I roll over and find that, to my relief, the other occupant of the bed is gone. She’s probably scrubbing my stink off her, among other things, and it’s just as well. Not only have I forgotten her name, I can’t even remember what she looks like. I try to focus my mind on the previous few hours and can only conjure the memories of ivory skin, violet eyes and a soft, pliant body that gave me what I wanted and asked very little in return.

I slip from the bed and gather my clothes as quickly as possible. I’ve fallen into the habit of leaving them in a neat and very particular pile – boots and socks on the bottom, trousers, shirt and vest in the middle, undergarments on top – so that I can dress and escape in a hurry, if necessary.

It’s happened a few times.

I’ve disappeared in the middle of the night from stately homes and rustic huts, seedy hostels and five-star hotels – sometimes with a furious husband on my heels.

Quickly, before the woman in the shower turns off the water, I pull on my clothes and leave the room, boots in hand. The door opens onto a hallway in what appears to be in a better inn on … Catorus. That’s the name of the planet where I’ve spent the last few days. Catorus, a boring little world on the outskirts of Federation territory, where I was told I could book passage to Deep Space Nine and on to wherever anyone was willing to take me. I’m going to have to hurry to catch the transport ship, so I trot down the hallway and summon the lift.

As I enter and turn, the door I’ve just exited opens and the ivory-skinned, violet-eyed woman emerges, wrapped in a towel.

I can’t meet her eyes.

When the lift doors slide closed, I find myself staring at the pale blue towel wrapped over her breasts, and my head begins to pound again.

=/\=

This is not how I was raised to treat women, or myself.

My people are not prigs about physical intimacy. Far from it, in fact.

We’re taught from an early age that our bodies have a way of connecting that is profound and magnificent, a gift to the People from the Creator. In a society that values openness and community, physical intimacy is regarded as the ultimate openness, the highest form of being in community and sharing oneself with another. We are encouraged to explore this connection but warned not to take it lightly or abuse the power we could have over a partner by not being equally invested in the sharing.

I’ve clearly crossed the line.

In the beginning, I justified it by telling myself I was in desperate need of release. I was barely forty when thrown into the Delta Quadrant, and seven years of near celibacy left me wondering what I was still capable of. I could feel myself slowing down, and I was anxious to make up for all those lost years.

It made sense at the time.

A one-week stay on Risa shortly after Seven’s departure convinced me I was still more than capable, and still youthful enough to turn a few heads. For a while I found joy in the sharing, but somewhere along the way, _sharing_ became _using_. I realized it the first time I woke up beside a woman I couldn’t name.

I should have been ashamed of myself. I should have gone to Trebus or Earth and let my sister or B’Elanna talk some sense into me. But I knew what they would have said: That I was debasing myself and making a fool of myself, and that deep down, I knew where I should be and to whom I should be talking.

So I didn’t bother.

I escaped that strange bed and that unfamiliar house with the clothes on my back and the certainty that this solitary, itinerant lifestyle was exactly what I deserved.

=/\=

The spaceport on Catorus is noisy and crowded.

I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and make my way over to the departure area, jostling among more ivory-skinned, violet-eyed Catorans. A few glance my way; even out here, even with shaggy gray hair falling over my tattoo and into my eyes, even with more than a month’s growth of beard, my face is still known. I try not to meet anyone’s gaze and find a place to sit and read, but the book in my hands is really just a shield.

The last thing I want right now is company.

I can barely stand to talk to people on their terms anymore. We all did too many interviews after our return, and with each subsequent one my answers became less revealing and more terse. Looking back, I can see that even then I was starting to retreat into myself as a means of deflecting attention and avoiding self-examination. Now, unless I’m attempting to charm a woman into bed, my interactions with people are brusque, often to the point of rudeness.

This is also not how I was raised. That bothers me just as much as the string of women I’ve left in my wake.

So now I keep a book with me whenever I’m in public. Always the same book, always opened first to the same place: Four pages in, to the hand-written inscription on the title page. I’ve run the pad of my thumb across her name so many times that it’s barely more than a blue smudge now. It’s a habit I fell into in the Delta Quadrant when she first loaned the volume to me. I know the shape of that name under my skin, the phantom feel of the fading ink.

After I’ve touched the name, I make a show of flipping through the book until it’s time to board the transport. It’s a civilian passenger vessel, as always. Technically I’m on sabbatical and could request ‘Fleet transport if I wanted it. But the military has a nasty habit of tracking officers’ movements, even officers on sabbatical, and I’d rather keep my wanderings to myself. It’s also a lot easier to alter the passenger manifest of a civilian vessel.

Shuffling along with the other passengers, I keep my head down and my eyes fixed on the corridor’s dingy floor. I find my single berth for the twelve-hour trip – nothing more than a gray box with a cot, a sink, a head and a chair – and lock the door behind me.

After all these years, being lost is a habit that I can’t break. 

=/\=

I haven’t been back to Trebus yet.

My sister and mother were there on Earth when _Voyager_ touched down, waiting for me with tears and embraces. The first few days with them were pleasant enough. But it soon became clear that I wasn’t the same boy who had left home to join Starfleet, nor even the same man who had left Starfleet to fight with the Maquis. The constant stress of the Delta Quadrant along with Seven’s departure had left me reeling and it wasn’t long before Sekaya and Mother tired of my rudeness and went home. We parted with the understanding that as soon as my debriefings were over and my sabbatical began, I’d follow them to Trebus.

I really intended to do exactly that, but just minutes before the _Rigoberta Menchu’s _departure, I ducked into an empty room at the spaceport and stuffed my uniform down the recycler. Half an hour later I was on my way to Risa. I sent them a brief message from there. _Something has come up_, I said. _I’ll be there when I can._

Four months have passed since then. I haven’t tried to contact them, and as far as I know they’ve never tried to find me.

They gave up on me.

It seems fitting.

=/\=

I wake up alone in the gray box with a fierce gnawing in the pit of my stomach.

I can’t remember the last time I ate. The Catoran woman whose name I can’t remember – if I ever knew it at all – was all too happy to supply me with drinks, but never offered food, and the scrap of pride I have left wouldn’t allow me ask for it outright. The chit in my pocket is loaded with more enough credits for a thousand sumptuous meals. It’s also ridiculously easy to trace. So unless I have latinum to offer, I try not to purchase things.

Usually, meals are not a problem for me. I have something else to offer in trade for sustenance. Sometimes all I have to do is smile and hint to the woman in question that the more nutrition in my belly, the more I’m capable of, and third and fourth helpings appear on my plate.

The Catoran woman didn’t pick up on my signals. She was far too eager to drag me back to her hotel room, and as always, I was a willing captive.

It’s been at least thirty-six hours since I ate, but fortunately the transport is now docking at Deep Space Nine. It shouldn’t take me too long to procure a meal … and a bed.

I haven’t reserved quarters here. I only plan on staying long enough to find a promising transport out, and Starfleet still has a lot of influence here. Booking rooms in advance seemed an unnecessary risk. Something will turn up. Something always does.

I make my way through the airlock and out onto the station with the rest of the passengers. I’ve been here at least dozen times before, first with Starfleet, later undercover with the Maquis. This station makes my stomach churn. Aside from the bad memories and the undeniably alien influences – a curve where a human would have put an angle, a window where a human would have left a wall – the place still reeks of Cardassians. On the Promenade, the stink is so prevalent I almost lose my appetite. Quickly, before my gorge rises any further, I find my way to Quark’s Bar. Quark is fanatical about the state of his establishment and has surely eradicated the stench of the station’s builders by now.

In the bar’s entryway, I pause. The place is full of ‘Fleet uniforms.

I may have miscalculated this stop along my way.

=/\=

Foolishly, I’d thought that if I stayed with Starfleet, I would soon be returning to space in the center seat of my own ship.

When Admirals Nechayev and Hayes summoned me to HQ for a meeting and produced the Academy Commandant instead of a fourth pip, I realized my mistake.

I smiled and nodded my way through the Commandant’s proposal and told her over a hearty handshake that I was grateful for the opportunity, and for the time to think it through during my sabbatical.

Deep down, I was furious.

There was a time when a posting to the Academy would have been a dream come true for me. It’s something I often imagined while in the Delta Quadrant, the way a child fantasizes life as a grown up.

_ When we get home, I’m going to teach at the Academy._

A long time ago when I speculated what our return would be like, I imagined lavish parties giving way to intimate gatherings with close family and friends. We’d all be granted extended private leave time to reestablish our old connections and explore our new ones. Fulfilled and happy, with a promising life ahead of me and maybe, if the circumstances were just right, even a family of my own to look forward to. I’d go back to California and settle into the career of an Academy Professor. My office would be on the south side of the building, with windows looking out onto the grounds and, just across the way, the building that houses the newest Admirals’ offices. I imagined sitting at my desk and gazing out the window across the quad in the fading afternoon light of sunset on San Francisco Bay.

Self-delusion, all of it.

By the time we really did get back and Seven left me, I wanted nothing more than to put the planet and HQ and the Admirals’ offices behind me forever.

I expected a pip and a ship.

I got the south-facing office instead.

I don’t want it anymore.

I don’t think I could bear it.

=/\=

It feels like every eye in the bar is on me.

A few people -- ‘Fleeters and civilians alike -- recognize me. They lean across the tables and whisper to their companions. In an instant, the truth of my identity has traveled throughout the room.

This is normal. I shake off the weight of all the prying eyes and make my way to the bar, watchful as ever for someone to cover my tab. The ‘Fleeters know better than to get involved with me, but a couple of the civilians look promising. A Dabo girl tries to catch my attention, but her red hair makes my eyes sting and I turn away.

From my bag I produce a strip of gold-pressed latinum. As if he can hear the currency hitting the bar, Quark slides in front of me and offers up a toothy smile. He doesn’t seem to recognize me. If he does, he chooses to keep it to himself. “What'll it be, sir?”

My body is so starved for sustenance at this point that I’m afraid anything too rich or spicy might make me ill. “Bowl of Kohlanese stew and some Lorvan crackers.”

“Right away, sir. May I offer you a beverage?”

I glance at the bottles and decanters behind the bar, but nothing looks familiar. “Cider?” I ask.

“Hard or virgin?”

“Hard, if you have it.”

“Of course, sir.” Quark fills a glass from one of the taps and sets it in front of me with a flourish. “Only our finest for you, sir,” he says in a low voice.

I stare at him over the rim of the glass. The cider is cool and sweet, and very potent. “It’s good,” I say quietly. “Strong.”

Quark nods happily and pockets the latinum. He nods to someone behind me. Before I can turn, a slim hand falls on my shoulder and a petite, feminine body leans into mine.

=/\=

The last time I was here, it was to meet with Michael Eddington, the station’s Starfleet Chief of Security.

I’d met Eddington before on earlier stops at the station, and I thought he could be turned to the Maquis. I made my case and rejoined the _Valjean_, and just a few weeks later my ship and crew were pulled into the Badlands.

Eddington didn’t leave with me, but I’d planted the seed. I only found out after we returned that he’d been one of the more ruthless of my compatriots, participating in several bloodthirsty attacks on Cardassians. Eventually he was killed by the Jem’Hadar on Athos IV.

At the time, he’d been trying to redeem his name and rescue his wife.

That was life in the Maquis. Violent and often all-too brief. “Nasty, brutish and short.”

Michael Eddington died while I was in the Delta Quadrant, but we all knew stories like his. Men who gave their lives to save their wives and homes. Women who gave their bodies to feed their children.

Those stories … They made it hard for most of us to connect, especially in the profound and magnificent way that the Creator intended for us. Death was the shadow in which we took from each other what our bodies craved. Anything more was an unacceptable risk to the spirit.

It was less risky on _Voyager_, but it took time for some to understand that, and to embrace it. B’Elanna finally did, and I’m still so proud of her and pleased for her that when I take the time to think about what she and Tom have built together, it takes my breath away.

It only took me days to understand how much better our lives on _Voyager_ could be. It took me months to realize that I’d never be allowed to embrace that life, not in the way I wanted to. It took me years to overcome that wound to my spirit.

The instant I set foot on Earth, I knew I hadn’t overcome it at all.

Self-delusion. It’s the one thing I truly excel at, apparently.

In retrospect, I’m sure Major Kira, the Bajoran liaison officer, knew I was on the station when I met with Michael Eddington. I think she even knew why. But Kira Nerys was an old friend with firsthand knowledge of Cardassian treachery, and probably conflicted about the rise of the Maquis. She looked the other way.

I have no illusions that she’ll do it a second time.

=/\=

She wraps her arms around me in a fierce hug and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “Chakotay!” she exclaims. “I thought I saw you disembark the _Seneth_. What are you doing here?”

As she slides onto the barstool next to mine, I take a quick look around the room and note the sudden disregard of the two civilians and the Dabo girl. Now that I’m on a first-name basis with the station’s Commander, I’m a lot less interesting than I was when I walked in, a celebrity with a sad story and a wounded spirit. I suppress a sigh. My prospects for a warm bed just evaporated. Unless … I give Nerys a speculative look.

No. It would destroy our friendship.

The realization that I respect her too much to do to her what I’ve done to dozens of women over the last few months makes my stomach roil.

Not that they were unwilling, of course. Far from it.

I take a long pull of my cider and return to the question that’s still hanging between us. “Taking some leave time. Trying to sort some things out.”

She frowns at me. “I thought you were going to be teaching at the Academy.”

It occurs to me to wonder how she could possibly know this, but I don’t even bother to ask. “They offered me a position for next term. I haven’t decided whether to take it.”

Her frown deepens. “So what have you been doing since you got back?”

I shake my head and look away. “Nothing important. Nothing at all.”

My soup and crackers arrive. Before I can raise my spoon, Nerys takes the bowl and the plate, places an order for a large raktajino and leaves the bar in favor of a secluded table in the corner. “Sit down,” she orders. “You need to talk.”

I have to chuckle. It’s been a long time since I was a young officer and she was the member of the Bajoran resistance I was sent to find and wound up protecting from Starfleet’s scrutiny instead, but our friendship hasn’t changed a bit.

I slide into the chair opposite her. “What do I need to talk about?”

“_Voyager_,” she says with a smile, chin in her hands. “Tell me everything.”

Over the course of the next couple of hours, I devour two bowls of soup, a plate of linguine, half a loaf of Mapa bread and another pint of cider while I tell her … everything.

We laugh about Captain Proton.

We curse Seska.

We lament Lon Suder.

We struggle to understand Rudy Ransom.

We mourn Kes and toast Neelix.

We grieve for Joe Carey.

We agonize over Kashyk.

The stories come pouring out of me, the real stories, not the ones spun to earn a meal and a bed. I tell her the stories I haven’t told anyone because there was no one interested enough to listen to them. In the end I feel … cleansed. Spent, in a way I haven’t been in months.

When Nerys waves the Bajoran waitress over and orders a carafe of cinnamon tea and a slice of pound cake, I finally notice all the empty plates and bowls on the table. Reluctantly, I reach into my pocket and retrieve my credit chit, but she waves it away. “It’s on me,” she says with a grin. “You looked like you could use it. And I imagine the last thing you want right now is a transaction on that chit.”

“I … thanks,” I stammer, and she nods.

“I know the telltale signs of someone trying to lay low.”

The waitress returns with the cake and tea. I dig into the cake while she watches for a moment. “Now tell me,” Nerys says, “about Kathryn.”

I almost choke on the cake.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I manage.

Nerys gives me a knowing smile. “Isn’t there?” She sips her raktajino. “_Kathryn_ may have enjoyed playing Queen Arachnia a little too much. _Kathryn_ was willing to risk the ship to go after your child. _Kathryn_ wasn’t afraid of Lon Suder. _Kathryn_ was stronger than Rudy Ransom, she just needed to be reminded of it. _Kathryn_ loved Kes like a daughter. _Kathryn_ felt Joe’s death more keenly than any other. _Kathryn_ manipulated Kashyk, but the personal cost was much too high. She’s all you’ve talked about for the last two hours, Chakotay.”

My mind is suddenly spinning in circles, small and tight. “No,” I whisper. “That can’t be.” Those were supposed to be the safe stories, the ones that didn’t concern her.

The grin leaves Nerys’s face and her eyes widen. “You didn’t even realize it, did you?”

I shake my head, and now the room is spinning, too.

All the stories come back to me, all the words I’ve used to create the myth that became my reality, the one that allowed me to fuck my way from one end of the quadrant to the other without ever risking my spirit.

“I admire her,” I breathe, and something twisted and hard in my chest begins to unwind to a much-needed release. “I admire her so much. She always believed she’d get us home someday, even when it looked like there was no hope. She lived with so much guilt it would have leveled a lesser person, and it almost did. But she didn’t let it. I helped her find her way again, but she emerged from her darkness on her own, more determined than ever.”

I feel tears in my eyes and ignore them. “She’s the most intelligent person I know, and the strongest. But she tries to never use her strength as a weapon. She always tries to do the right thing, to put compassion first, even when it costs her. Sometimes she fails. But she always rises again, stronger than she was before.”

The next words come from a place buried so deep inside me, I didn’t think I could reach it anymore. “She’s brave, and beautiful, and very wise.”

Nerys places her palm against my cheek. “You loved her.”

“I tried so hard,” I sob. “I tried to stay loyal. I tried to wait. But I wasn’t strong enough, Nerys. I had to let go to save some scrap of myself, but there was nothing left to save. All the best parts of me belong to her.”

“She’s the reason you’re running, isn’t she?”

I scrub my sleeve across my eyes like a child. “Running?”

She lets out a long, slow breath. “You haven’t covered your tracks as well as you think you have, my friend,” she murmurs. “Sekaya was worried about you and asked B’Elanna to find you. B’Elanna called me a few days ago and said it looked like your path might bring you here. She asked me to watch out for you.” Nerys takes my shaking hands in hers. “We know about the drinking and the womanizing, and we know it isn’t you. I’m sure you don’t like this invasion of your privacy, Chakotay, but we can’t let you go any further on this journey of self-destruction.”

Self-destruction. Not self-delusion. _Self-destruction._

That’s it. That’s the reality I’ve created for myself. That’s my Truth, hidden where I’d never find it. I’m too weak and scared to put a phaser in my mouth, so I’m trying to destroy myself in any other soul-crushing way I can find, and telling myself I’m doing it to protect my spirit.

But Nerys knows.

Sekaya knows.

B’Elanna knows, and probably Tom.

And if they know … _Kathryn knows._

I stand up so fast the chair spins away from the table and crashes to the floor. Alarmed, Nerys draws away from me. “Chakotay?”

“Air,” I growl. “Can’t breathe in here. Smells like Spoonheads.”

“Watch your mouth,” she snaps, and drags me by the arm back out to the Promenade.

The air is no better here, and I know now it has nothing to do with Cardassians. The stink of rot is in my clothes, in my skin, and I can’t get away from it. Suddenly my throat convulses and all the food I’ve eaten in the last couple of hours rises in my stomach. “Gonna be sick,” I say.

“Where’s your room?”

“Didn’t get one.”

Nerys makes a noise of raw exasperation. “Of course not. Come with me.”

She half-drags me off the Promenade and into a lift, where she shoves me against the back wall and wipes sweat from my forehead. “Do you want to talk to our Counselor?”

I shake my head and wish I hadn’t. “No.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Throw up until I pass out.” Maybe I’ll be lucky and never wake up.

The lift leaves us on the Habitat ring, where Nerys drags me to a door, orders it open and leads me inside. The quarters are huge, probably hers. She guides me to the lavatory and pushes me inside, where I proceed to empty the contents of my stomach.

Half an hour later, when I’m sitting on the shower floor and sobbing my guts out, she taps on the door. Through the frosted shower glass, I see her step hesitantly into the lavatory. “I have to go back on duty,” she says. “Will you be all right for a few hours?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not going to do anything stupid?”

“No.”

“You’ll be here when I get back?”

I push a mass of wet hair off my face and drag my forearm across my eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

“These quarters have a second bedroom. It’s the one with the green blanket on the bed. Sleep as long as you need to.”

“Thanks.”

She leans over and scoops up my soiled clothes. “Do you want me to put these in the refresher for you?”

“No,” I say. “Burn them.”

=/\=

I wake up with a pounding in my head.

At least I know where I am this time.

The thought that _she_ will soon know where I am, too, fills me with both shame and relief, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I can appeal to Nerys’s discretion, but the _Voyager_ family is still close-knit. Once B’Elanna knows I was here, they’ll all know.

I suppose I don’t really mind. Even if I never go back to Earth, it’s probably time for me to stop running.

I roll over and open my eyes. On the table next to the bed, there’s a glass of water that wasn’t there before, with a PADD propped up against it. I take up the PADD and activate it.

_My CMO and I came to check on you. I hope you don’t mind. He says you’re going to wake up with a terrible headache, so when we both go off-shift at 1900, we’ll be in with an analgesic._

I glance at the chrono on the wall – it’s 1820 now – and return to the PADD.

_In the meantime, Doctor Bashir suggests you drink the water and replicate a bland snack to see if you can keep it down. I programmed in crackers and peanut butter. Nothing slimy, don’t worry. I also replicated some clean clothes for you._

_ If you get bored, take a look at the attached document. I think you might find it interesting._

_ You’re going to be fine, Chakotay._

_ See you soon._

_ -KN-_

At the end of the message, there’s a link to a Starfleet Requisition Proposal. It’s a lengthy document. I read it through twice, but it boils down to one idea: Commander Kira wants a Command-level Starfleet officer permanently assigned to DS9 to assist in special missions to Bajor and Cardassia, someone with tactical expertise, undercover experience and familiarity with both societies, who is also sensitive to the needs of the recently occupied.

When I finally lower the PADD, I notice two neat piles of clothing on the chair opposite the bed. One pile consists of tan trousers, a dark red shirt and a brown jacket. The other … The other is a Starfleet Commander’s uniform.

She’s giving me a choice, and a way out of my self-destructive behavior.

I toss the PADD on top of the uniform and head back into the lavatory, where I find shaving equipment. I laugh out loud at the unsubtle suggestion, and after another hot shower, find myself in front of the mirror with the sonic razor in hand. After I’ve removed a month’s growth of beard, I look more like myself. After I reset the razor and trim all the scraggly gray hair back into the military cut I’ve worn since my Academy days, I _feel_ more like myself.

Towel wrapped around my waist, I ponder the two piles of clothing for a long time, until I finally come to a decision and get dressed. I stuff the other pile of clothes into my bag. I don’t need them right now, but there’s no sense in wasting them.

When Nerys returns, I’m sitting at her table munching on peanut butter crackers and reading through the proposal a third time. She looks me over, smiles at my attire, and sits down at the table opposite me.

“You’re looking better than you were a few hours ago.”

I nod. “I feel better.”

“Crackers staying down?”

“Right where they belong.”

She points to the PADD. “What did you think?”

“I would have thought the uniform was a dead giveaway.”

Her smile lights up the whole room. “What did you do with the rest of the clothes?”

“In my bag.”

“Perfect. You’ll need them for off-duty.” She helps herself to a peanut butter cracker. “I peeked in your bag to see if you had something else to wear before I replicated the new clothes. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

She taps her fingers on the table between us. “I was also looking for your medicine bundle. You’re traveling without it?”

I shrug. “I don’t need it anymore.”

“Are you sure? B’Elanna said I should make sure you have it.”

With a sigh, I sit back in the chair. “I left it somewhere. It wasn’t effective anyway.”

Nerys stares at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. “You’re a grown man,” she finally says, “and you can do what you want … But I don’t think now is the best time to abandon your spirituality.” I start to wave off her concern, but her next words catch me by surprise. “Especially given the nature of the missions you’ll be undertaking while you’re here. You’re going to need something to fall back on.”

I nod slowly. “All right.”

“There’s probably no replicator specs on file here for your … What was it?”

“_Akoonah_.” After such a long time, the word feels strange on my tongue.

“_Akoonah_,” she repeats. “We won’t have anything like that. But I can arrange for you to visit one of the temples on Bajor. Maybe one of the adepts can help you find something similar.”

“Thank you.” I polish off the second glass of water. “So can I assume I’ve got the job?”

“I don’t think there will be a problem, after Julian and Ezri have declared you fit for duty.”

“Julian and Ezri?”

“My CMO and Counselor. They should be here any minute.”

I grin. “You don’t waste any time.”

“Never have,” she says, then leans across the table. “I’m going to have to inform the Admiralty.”

“I assumed you would. But can I ask you one last favor?”

“Of course.”

I rub my chin, startled for a second by the lack of beard there. “When you talk to B’Elanna, just tell her you saw me and that I’m okay, not that I’m still here. I’m not quite ready for all the questions.”

“Done,” she says, with a quick dip of her chin that makes my heart ache. “I’ll see what’s keeping Julian and Ezri.”

“Wait.” I catch her hand before she can raise it to her comm badge. “Thank you for this,” I say softly. “I owe you. More than I can ever repay.”

She squeezes my hand. “Just do good work here, Chakotay,” she says. “You make a difference here, make these people’s lives better, and we’ll be even.”

“I will. I swear it.”

=/\=

_In the middle of the journey of our life_

_ I found myself astray in a dark wood_

_ Where the straight road had been lost._

With every word and deed, every thought, we create our own reality.

This is the Truth that the Creator – or Coyote, depending on your version of the story – wanted to hide from the People.

In the weeks since I accepted the offer Commander Nerys made, I’ve often wondered why this Truth needed to be hidden.

I think it’s because this Truth is immensely powerful.

When we know that the shape our lives take is ultimately up to us, we can grasp it with both hands and consciously mold it into the shape that best suits us. We’re no longer beholden to the Creator – or the Prophets, if you prefer, or the Gods – for our every happiness. We have no one to blame when we are sad or sick or bent on self-destruction. We make our own contentment … or not. It’s our choice, and our responsibility.

I miss her with every atom of my being, but at least I can talk about her now. Ezri helped to draw me out first. Nerys told me about Bareil and Odo, and I realized I don’t have the corner on heartsickness and never did. While my story is wholly unique in its details, it is universal in its themes of sin and redemption, life and death, love and loss.

A long stay at a Bajoran temple allowed me to get to know the spirit world again, and I’m reassembling my medicine bundle. I’ll never be able to replace the items from Trebus and New Earth, but I’ve at least made a partial start. The most meaningful item in it is a book I know by heart. Every time I unwrap the hides and open the book, I still slide my thumb over the blue smudge of ink in the vague shape of her name, four pages in.

I’ll find my way back to her.

It’s up to me to create that reality with thought and word and deed and see it through. 

Maybe not soon, but someday.

_We mounted up, he first and I the second,_

_ Till I beheld through a round aperture_

_ Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear;_

_Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars._

-THE END-

Edited September 7, 2019

**Author's Note:**

> There really is more to this story. I just need to find the time to write it.


End file.
